A Faun In Wall Street

What shape so furtive steals along the dim Bleak street, barren of throngs, this day of June; This day of rest, when all the roses swoon In Attic vales where dryads wait for him? What sylvan this, and what the stranger whim That lured him here this golden afternoon; Ways where the dusk has fallen oversoon In the deep canyon, torrentless and grim?

Great Pan is far, O mad estray, and these Bare walls that leap to heaven and hide the skies Are fanes men rear to ...